Chapter Text
It’s been a quiet morning. Greasy Sae and her granddaughter came, as usual, for breakfast; Peeta did not. Almost every day he’s shown up for breakfast–always with a fresh loaf of bread–and again for dinner each night. But there have been a handful of times he’s missed a meal with no explanation as to why. I guess this is one of those mornings.
I take the plate of eggs from Sae and take a seat at my usual spot at the table. Sae’s granddaughter, May Belle, plops down into the seat next to me so we’re both facing the empty chair across from us.
“Peeta?” she asks, cocking her head. I shake my head no, and her shoulders sag.
The first time she came over with Sae after Peeta’s return to Twelve, Peeta had been surprised to see the little girl.
“Well, hello there,” he had said brightly, “I’m Peeta. What brings you here this fine morning?”
“May Belle don’t talk much, dear. But don’t think she’s not listenin’ to every word,” Greasy Sae said. “We learned that the hard way a few years back when she started repeatin’ some unsavory things she heard ‘round the Hob.”
Peeta chuckled. “Well it’s very nice to meet you, May Belle. I’ll try not to teach you any new bad words,” he said with a wink. She giggled. It seemed that Peeta had made quite the impression on her; his name is one of the only words I’ve heard her say.
“I guess he’s still sleepy,” I say. On instinct, I reach over and ruffle her hair the way I’d done to Prim hundreds of times. Suddenly the eggs on my plate taste like ash, but I continue to force them down my throat because I know Sae will stay and watch me until I’ve eaten a satisfactory amount. When I hit the point where I can’t eat any more, I set down my fork and look up at Sae, who takes pity on me and nods.
I’ve just returned to my spot on the couch when I hear Peeta hurry through the front door. I scan him up and down for any sign of injury or trouble while he removes his shoes. He looks a little disheveled, but overall fine.
“Good morning, sorry I’m late” he addresses the room as a whole. May Belle’s eyes light up; I turn my attention to a loose thread on the nearest blanket.
“Nonsense, you’re just in time,” says Sae. “I’ve got a plate fixed up for you right here.”
Even with my focus on the thread, I can practically feel Peeta’s questioning gaze at the sight of me on the couch rather than the kitchen.
“She ate a bit already, but I’m sure a slice of that bread you brought would do her some good,” Sae tells him quietly.
Peeta thanks Sae for the meal and she bids their goodbyes, the little girl waving at Peeta as she goes. He tentatively sits next to me on the couch and hands me a small plate with a slice of cinnamon bread while he tucks into his own plate of eggs.
“Did you sleep alright?” Peeta asks.
I shrug at his question. When was the last time I slept well?
“You still have nightmares, real or not real?” he asks after a while.
“Real,” I say flatly.
I guess Peeta has nothing more to add to that, so we continue on in the weighty silence we’ve become so accustomed to these days. Since he came back to District Twelve, despite his consistent appearance in my home, any conversation we’ve had has been awkward and stilted. In the morning he asks me how I slept, at dinner he’ll ask what I did that day, and that’s about the extent of our conversation until we repeat the cycle the next day. He hasn’t been cold to me necessarily–not like the way things were before the Victory Tour or when we talked in District Thirteen–but it’s nothing like the easy bond we shared before. Of course, nothing is like it was before.
“Is it…not good?” says Peeta after some time. He’s frowning at the slice of bread I’ve been moving around my plate. I realize I’ve only taken one single bite.
“No, it's fine. It’s good,” I reassure him, but he still seems unconvinced. “I’m just not hungry.” Usually Peeta’s bread is the first thing I eat at each meal, but with his late arrival this morning and my limited appetite I can’t stomach another bite now.
He studies me for a moment, then gives me a soft smile.
“I’m going to try to make cheese buns soon. I made sure to add a lot of cheese to my next shipment from the Capitol, so I can have plenty of tries to get them right.”
I know he’s hoping this will provoke some reaction out of me, but all I can think about is the word try. As if he doesn’t remember.
His smile falters. “I don’t think it’ll take long, once I start making them. Usually muscle memory kicks in, although it’s easier when I have a recipe. But since the cheese buns were my own creation…” he trails off. He sighs and gives his head a little shake, then he smiles again, but there’s still a sadness in his eyes he can’t quite mask. “It’ll come back eventually. Everything always does.”
He gets up and takes both of our plates back into the kitchen, and I’m left to ponder what he just said. No, everything does not always come back. Some things are lost forever. Shouldn’t he know that better than anyone?
“The rest of the loaf’s in the kitchen for you if you get hungry later, okay?” he says. I nod my thanks. He squeezes my shoulder gently as he passes by the couch and heads towards the front door. It’s a strange gesture, but it’s oddly comforting. Friendly even. I don’t know what to make of it.
“I’ll see you for dinner,” he says, and then he’s gone.
I curl into the nearest blanket, nestle into myself, and try to conjure up the taste of cheese buns that now only exists in my mind.
Some time later I hear the door open again, but I know it’s too early for Sae to start dinner. Part of me almost hopes that Peeta decided to come back, but even with my back to the door I can tell that the footsteps I hear are not his familiar, uneven tread.
“Come on, I need your help with something” says a gruff voice behind me. Haymitch. I turn and stare at him. I haven’t seen him since we arrived back to District Twelve. He doesn’t look any better or worse than when we got home, so I guess that’s something.
“Where the hell have you been?” I say, glaring at him.
“My house, you know that thing thirty yards across from yours? Nothing was stopping you from popping by for a chat,” he says.
“I could say the same to you,” I mutter. He was sent here to watch over me, after all.
“Well I’m here now, aren’t I? Come on,” he says, gesturing towards the door.
I don’t know why I follow him, but I do begrudgingly.
“Why can’t Peeta help you?” I grumble as I put my boots on.
“He’s busy,” he grunts.
“Doing what?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Keeping busy. Something the two of us need to get better at, apparently.”
I don’t want to see the burnt remains of my district again, but Haymitch doesn’t direct us towards the town anyway. Without any remaining landmarks it’s hard to get my bearings, but the path we take is relatively untouched by the bombings.
“Where are we going?” I finally ask.
“Train station. Weekly shipment just came in.”
“If you think I’m in any shape to carry your crates of booze–”
He cuts me off with a laugh. “Sweetheart, you’re not in any shape to carry a crate of air. They’ve got carts and volunteers for the heavy lifting.”
“Then what am I doing here?” I ask incredulously.
“You needed to get out of the house, and I needed to check in with you,” he shrugs.
“Figured it was easier this way.”
I’m so annoyed with him I decide that I won’t speak for the rest of the walk. Although truthfully, it has less to do with him and more to do with how out of breath I am already.
“So you decided to stick around, then?” he says after a while.
“I thought I was confined to the district until further notice,” I frown.
“You are. I just meant…” he hesitates, “it seems like you’ve changed your mind about that little hunger strike you went on in the Capitol.”
Oh. Sticking around. I haven’t really considered the alternative since returning to Twelve, but I guess that’s for the best. Since finding out I would not be executed, that I would be allowed to live out the remainder of my life in relative peace, I haven’t looked back on those days in isolation. Even if I’ve done a poor job of taking care of my life since then, I no longer feel the need to end it.
“Yeah, I guess I’m here to stay,” I say, with only a hint of bitterness.
“Good,” he responds quietly.
Up until now I hadn’t really considered the fact that I have a future. I’ve just been continuing my numb existence. I don’t feel that same drive I felt before to let it all end, I guess I should be grateful for that. But the alternative is almost just as daunting. The idea of living the rest of my life the way I have been, with my days mechanic and meaningless, seems miserable; the idea of “keeping busy”, as Haymitch put it, sounds exhausting.
“How do you do it?” I ask suddenly, “How do you keep going with nothing left?” Despite his many faults, I know Haymitch understands this feeling. He’s spent most of his life in a house as big and empty as mine is now.
“Well I can’t say I’d recommend my method of coping if you can avoid it.” He sighs. “You’ve got to find something to care about again, just look around and pick one for starters.” He chuckles, “Although if I were you, I’d start with that lovesick little puppy who’s bringing you bread everyday.”
This stops me in my tracks.
“Peeta doesn’t love me anymore,” I say firmly.
“Since when?” He’s smirking, which only makes me angrier, more hurt.
“Since…since the Capitol brainwashed it out of him, Haymitch!” I yell. “How could you–”
“Things change, sweetheart. You were in solitary a long time, and he was in treatment even longer. You know, he’s not confined to any one place. Why do you think he came back here, the lovely scenery?”
“This is still home. That doesn’t mean he…do you really think that he could…” I stutter.
I can’t make sense of any of it. Why did he come back? His family, the bakery, his memories…they’re all gone. He could’ve easily started over anywhere in Panem, but instead he’s here baking bread and planting primrose bushes.
“Look,” he starts again, “it’s no longer my job to speculate on the love lives of two teenagers, and thank God for that. All I know is that while you were on trial he had this moment where he fully came back to himself. It was really something. Maybe I can’t say for sure if he loves you–and it’s his business to fill you in on all that when he’s ready–I’m just saying that since that day he’s been…back.”
When we arrive at the train station I’m temporarily distracted from Haymitch’s new revelations. We didn’t see a single person on our walk from the Village to the station, but there’s a small crowd of people on the platform hustling around the neat line of crates. It’s mostly men I vaguely recognize from the Seam sorting crates and lifting them onto carts. I’m surprised by how many crates there are. Are there really this many people back in Twelve, and how are they affording to order all this from the Capitol? Come to think of it, I don’t even know how supplies are ordered. It hits me all at once how little I know about the development of our district in these past weeks, let alone the development of the nation I lost everything for.
Haymitch makes his way to the front of the line to find his shipment. I try to stay back as much as possible to avoid getting in the way of anyone. I pass the time by walking down the line reading the last names neatly printed on the side of every box. Occasionally I see a name I remember from a classmate or a neighbor, but it isn’t until about halfway that I see a name that has any real meaning to me. Three crates with the name Mellark .
My feet are moving toward them before my brain catches up, but by the time I reach Peeta’s boxes I decide that this is the right thing to do anyway. He mentioned the shipment this morning, but maybe he didn’t know it was coming today. Or even if he knows it’s today, there’s no harm in saving him the walk since I’m already here, right? He would do the same thing for me. It’s the right thing to do.
I wheel over a nearby cart, but immediately I remember Haymitch’s comments about my lack of strength and know that there’s no way I’ll be able to get these crates onto the cart. Stubbornly, I try anyway but without success.
“Need a hand?”
I turn around to see Thom frowning slightly at me. I nod, although he’s already started lifting the boxes anyway.
“Thanks,” I mutter. I feel embarrassed, remembering Thom bringing me back from the woods the other day. I hadn’t really cared until now, but I hate how weak I’ve gotten, I miss being able to run and climb and hunt.
“Don’t worry about it, these ones are especially heavy,” he says, pausing to wipe sweat from his brow. “Any idea what’s in here?”
I shrug. “Flour, probably. Oh, and cheese,” I add.
“Must be a hell of a lot of cheese then,” Thom scoffs. He makes sure the crates are secure on my cart and that I’m able to push it well enough, then leaves with a “see you around, Katniss.”
Haymitch makes his way back over to me. He frowns when he sees my cart, then raises an eyebrow when he reads the name printed on the side.
“Guess my little pep talk worked, huh?” he says with a snort.
I scowl at him in return. I replay Haymitch’s words about Peeta over and over in my head. It’s not until we’re approaching Victor’s Village that I’m able to put some kind of words to the thoughts in my head.
“Haymitch…” I slow my pace as we approach Haymitch’s house. “Are you sure he’s back?”
He studies me carefully for a moment. “You have to understand that he’ll never be exactly the same as before. He’s always going to have…lingering effects from what they did to him.”
I nod slowly. I know this, that Peeta will never make a full recovery from the hijacking. Even before what Haymitch told me today, I know he’s made far better progress than anyone expected. Still, I can’t help but wonder what Haymitch means by lingering effects. Does he mean that Peeta will still need to play Real or Not Real, or that he may occasionally try to rip out my throat again. Surely it can’t be the latter…can it?
“He’s not violent anymore,” Haymitch says, as if he was reading my mind, “that doctor of yours wouldn’t have let him come back if he thought it would put you in danger.”
I nod again.
“Then yes,” he says, “I’m sure he’s back.”
I know Haymitch would never sugarcoat things for my sake. If he says Peeta’s back he must believe it, but still it’s hard to trust that he’s right.
“Just give him a chance,” Haymitch reads my mind again, “maybe start by trying to hold a real conversation instead of giving him two word answers.”
I scowl at him. “How do you know that?”
A shrug is all he says in response. He takes a flask out of his pocket and takes a long pull. Honestly, I’m impressed it took him this long to need it. “See you around, Sweetheart.” he calls from his front door.
I leave Peeta’s cart in front of the stairs leading up to his house, that way he can’t miss it the next time he leaves the house. A part of me wonders if I should knock on his door, but for some reason I’d rather him not know that I was the one who brought the cart.
I’m exhausted by the time I make it back through my door. All I want to do is collapse on the couch, but the smell of cinnamon from the kitchen is too tempting to ignore now. I generously slather two slices of Peeta’s bread with butter, and then a third and fourth. I end up eating over half the loaf before I finally settle into my nap on the couch.
I wake up drenched in sweat, panting from my nightmare. My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am 17 years old. My home is District 12…
Once I’ve calmed down enough I realize there’s still an hour or so before dinner. I decide to take a shower, grabbing another slice of bread as I head up the stairs, painstakingly keeping my eyes to the ground to avoid even a glimpse of my little sister’s bedroom.
As I shower I think through the last conversation with Haymitch. He must’ve talked to Peeta recently, that’s the only way he would know about our conversations. Or lack thereof. Does Peeta go over there and what…complain about me? No, that’s not Peeta. Worry about me? Is that why Haymitch finally came to see me? I had thought Peeta’s and my interactions had been awkward on both sides, but as I think through this morning I realize how much Peeta has been trying, and how little I gave him back.
I’m distracted the whole shower. Eventually my hand finds the dial and turns the water off, eventually I grab a towel and dry off, eventually I pull on a loose t-shirt and soft pants. I don’t bother to braid my hair, but I at least run a brush through it. All the while I think about Peeta, and is he really back, and how to talk to him if he is.
When I come downstairs Greasy Sae is already at the stove working on a stew but Peeta isn’t here yet. I take my seat at the table and wait. I’m suddenly nervous for Peeta’s arrival, which is stupid, because we eat together every day.
“Hi,” I say, perhaps a touch too eager, as Peeta enters the kitchen.
“Hey,” he responds, slightly taken aback. His brow is furrowed with curiosity, but Sae cuts in before he can say anything else.
“I made double the amount here, so the rest is going in your fridge for tomorrow’s dinner. It’s May Belle’s birthday so I’ll take the evening off to spend with her.”
“Why don’t you take the morning off, too, Sae?” Peeta offers, “I can come make breakfast tomorrow.” Kind, generous, thoughtful Peeta. Is he really back?
“That alright with you, dear?” Sae asks, turning to me.
I realize, with a start, that I had been staring at Peeta. “Of course. You should spend the day with her tomorrow.”
“Well thank you, that’s mighty nice of you to offer Peeta. Y’all have a nice night,” Sae says.
When we’re both settled at the table, I know I need to be the one to initiate conversation for once. I decide it’s safest to start with the question Peeta asks me every evening.
“So what did you do today?” I ask.
For a moment he stares at me in disbelief, like he can’t believe I’m really talking to him. He recovers quickly, though.
“Um, same as most days I guess. I baked in the morning, painted in the afternoon,” he says.
I’m glad to hear he’s painting again, but I don’t want to talk about the nightmares he’s undoubtedly been painting, not yet.
“What did you bake?” I ask.
“Well I made the cinnamon loaf for you…” He glances over to the counter where he left the bread this morning, and he’s surprised, and maybe a little pleased, to see how much of it is gone. “Which I guess you weren’t lying about liking after all,” he adds with a smirk.
“I got hungry,” I say defensively.
Peeta looks like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes at me. “Oh, I also made a dill loaf that I ended up giving to Haymitch,” he adds.
That all but confirms my suspicions that it was a conversation with Peeta that drove Haymitch to my house this afternoon. But suddenly another memory is triggered in my mind.
“You’ve made those loaves on the same day before, real or not real?” I ask.
“Katniss, I bake a lot of bread.” He gives a nervous laugh. “Even at my best I don’t exactly remember what I baked on specific days,” he says. Maybe he can tell by my face that this matters to me, because he adds, “I’m sure you’re right though, if you remember it I’m sure it happened.”
“I don’t know for sure that you did. It just reminded me…” I trail off, afraid of pushing the conversation too far.
“Reminded you of what?” he prods gently.
“The day I broke my ankle, when you carried me to bed,” I whisper, despite the fact that we’re the only two people in the house. I search his face and find a spark of recognition behind his eyes. But mostly he just looks curious, so I continue, “I pulled your hand up to my face and…it smelled like cinnamon and dill. I remember thinking those must have been the loaves you baked that day.”
He‘s quiet for a long time, maybe trying to recall the events of that day. Finally, I look up to see his mouth creep into a tentative smile and he says, “you have a… remarkable memory.”
“I guess the details just…stuck better when you were gone and they were all I had left,” I admit, dropping my gaze to avoid his. My face feels hot all of a sudden. To my surprise, he reaches across the table and covers my hand with his own.
“Well, I’m here now,” he whispers. I look first at our hands, then up to his blue eyes. They’re all kindness and gentleness and so Peeta.
“I guess you are, aren’t you?” I manage my first real smile in months. I am rewarded with an even bigger smile from him; the kind that lights up his features, making it impossible to look away. He gives my hand a light squeeze before pulling back to return to the meal.
The rest of dinner goes well enough. We’re still quiet at times, still testing the waters, still avoiding hard topics. But the steady flow of light conversation is so much better than the awkward silences we’ve had the past few weeks. Peeta guesses correctly that I was the one who dropped off his weekly shipment and thanks me. Then he tells me an elaborate story about a goose that followed him the whole way home from the station last week.
“Damn thing finally ended up attacking my leg,” he says dramatically. “Unlucky for him it was my left leg, think it hurt him a whole lot more than it hurt me. But I’ve got bite marks in my pant leg now,” he grumbles.
“You know, they’ve got a name for geese like that,” I say.
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” he asks.
“Dinner.”
The corners of Peeta’s eyes crinkle and he lets out a laugh that fills my body with warmth. And then suddenly I’m laughing too. I can’t remember the last time I laughed, really laughed. I wonder if the feeling is just as foreign to Peeta. I doubt he’s had many opportunities to laugh as of recently. We laugh another minute until at the same time we both realize our bowls have been empty for quite some time.
Peeta glances at the clock. “I should probably head home,” he says reluctantly.
I’m trying to find some excuse to keep him here longer, but I come up empty. So instead I walk him to the door, already dreading the moment he leaves.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks, hovering in the doorway.
“See you tomorrow,” I confirm. I’m suddenly overcome with the urge to throw my arms around him and ask him to stay, but I stop myself. It’s still too soon for that. Instead, I awkwardly settle on squeezing his shoulder the same way he did this morning.
He laughs and says, “Goodnight, Katniss,” before shutting the door behind him.
What now? After dinner I usually return to the couch until morning, but it’s still pretty early in the evening and I still have some energy left. I go back to the kitchen and clean the dishes from the day. I leave fresh bowls of food and water out for Buttercup. I eat another slice of cinnamon bread for dessert.
Finally, with nothing left to fill my time, I decide I might as well lay down for the night. When I see my little nest of blankets on the couch, however, I’m hit with one final energy burst that instead carries me up the stairs to my bedroom.
My bed still sits unmade from the one night I’ve spent in it since coming back. I pull on clean pajamas, brush my teeth and braid my hair, and on a whim I open the window a few inches before falling into bed. The exhaustion finally hits me as I curl up under the covers. It’s a good exhaustion, though, for once. I can’t help the small smile that comes to my face as I let the exhaustion win and fade to sleep, hoping tonight for dreams of cinnamon and dill and Peeta’s laughter.